


"Impossible to be Silent"

by farad



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:36:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only way to win in a war of words with Ezra is to take away his weapons.  But even then, it's a hard-fought battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Impossible to be Silent"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Delphi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/gifts).



> For Delphi – better late than never? I hope, anyway.
> 
> Special thanks to JoJo, Dail, and Huntersglenn for their very kind assistance with this, and their excellent suggestions. All mistakes and decisions involving style are truly my own.

_"Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent."_

Victor Hugo

 

 

"Don't say anything." He dropped his hand over Ezra's mouth, guiding him to silence. He'd discovered a while ago that when Ezra wasn't talking, when he wasn't manipulating, he was quite attractive. And when he was quite attractive, Josiah wanted to do things to him, things that he hadn't wanted to do to another man in many long years.

 

But keeping Ezra speechless was the key. Desire worked much better when it wasn't tempered with the irritation that Ezra's words often caused. When it wasn't dampened by Ezra's attempts to make others do his bidding.

 

Under his fingers, Ezra nodded, his eyes bright in the pale light of the room's single lamp. It sat on the dresser, closer to the door than the bed, and Josiah had turned it even lower when he'd slipped into the room, using the key Ezra had given him.

 

Ezra had been asleep, not for too long though; it was just before dawn, a time of the day that was more familiar to Josiah than to Ezra, unless he had had a particularly lucrative night. His hair was tousled, his skin burnished with a slight shimmer from a fine layer of sweat. He wore little – no shirt of any kind, his upper body not even covered by the sheet.

 

The very idea of it, the nakedness, was decadent, wanton, and it tore away any reserve that Josiah might have had.

 

Might have had. He wasn't sure at what point his reserve had given way to the image of Ezra like this. So young, so perfect, so terribly seductive. Which was why Ezra had to be silent. As soon as he started talking, the image evaporated.

 

Ezra had taken a long time to learn this – to learn to keep his mouth shut, at least at the start. But he had learned, and Josiah knew that it was because Ezra wanted him as much as he needed this image of Ezra.

 

As much as he wanted Ezra. Talk would come later, after. Talk that was easier between them, talk that was simple and open.

 

Ezra stared up at him now, his eyes heavy-lidded from sleep, but Josiah saw the spark in them, the desire. It flared, a flame of gold just behind the rich green of his irises. It reminded Josiah of the gold tooth that flashed when Ezra was truly amused. Both emotions, amusement and desire, were rare and well-hidden from the world. They revealed too much about the man, gave away too much that he wanted to keep hidden.

 

But Josiah saw them, probably more than anyone else. Ezra worried about that, which was why he struggled to lead things between them.

 

Josiah let his fingers drift away from Ezra's lips, tracing along the strong chin, down and under his jaw to his throat. Ezra swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing under Josiah's fingertips. It was a slow, easy rise and fall, like something drifting on a tide. Ezra's throat was slender, the undulation a reminder of its fragility. His own hands, large and strong from years of work, could fit around Ezra's neck, squeezing slowly. The thought of it teased at his mind, and he recalled the last time he'd had the pleasure, one that Ezra delighted in as well. But that wasn't what he wanted now, not that sort of control nor that sort of quiet.

 

Now, he let his fingers slip lower, into the low point at the bottom of his throat, where his sternum began. He could feel the heat here, a small pool of perspiration that smelled of Ezra's cologne, spicy and rich. With no thought, he leaned down and lapped at it, letting it sit on his tongue, tasting the essence of Ezra himself.

 

Ezra's skin tingled under him, vibrating as Ezra moaned. It was a low sound, heavily mixed with air, sounding more like the desert wind than human. It was a sound Josiah loved, a reflection of the core of the man, the parts of him that were natural, innate. The part of him that was without speech, and thus out of control.

 

His fingers slid lower, followed by his tongue, tasting the salt and the man, drawing more of the sound of the desert wind. In places, he slowed, letting the tip of his tongue flutter over places he knew were sensitive – places where the rapid contact changed the pitch of the wordless noises, making them higher, breathier. Strong fingers clutched at his shoulders, kneading into the tendons in a way that might have been encouragement or discouragement, but Josiah hardly noticed. The sound held his attention, the pitch and timbre.

 

He moved down, over the hard planes of the abdomen. It was saltier here, with a growing flavor of musk and need. The taste rose to greet him, flesh pushing up against his lips. The low moan had risen slightly, not loud but higher, closer to a whine. Ezra wasn't patient tonight, which was – interesting. Usually, if he was this desperate, he found a reason to come to Josiah. 

 

Josiah's hand moved lower, pushing away the sheet to find the body below the waist as bare as the body above. Wanton, decadent – downright lewd.

 

The pressure in Josiah's groin grew stronger, demanding in its own right. He sat up just enough to fumble with his trousers, opening them to free his growing erection. His sigh of relief was accompanied by a groan. Then a hand reached forward, long slender fingers curving around the width of his cock with ease and knowledge.

 

The contact changed Josiah's intent. He'd wanted to be in control, wanted to have Ezra all to himself, to master the instrument making these varied, instinctive sounds.

 

But the hand on his cock knew how to create its own music, one that was based in the low roar of Josiah's blood as it sped up, coursing through him. The sound of his breathing, shorter, faster, staccato, accompanied the whole notes Ezra breathed, notes that now grew stronger, more demanding.

 

Josiah leaned down again, thinking to regain control of himself and of his lover by shifting the balance back in his favor. His lips kissed the tip of the smooth knob of flesh, the tip of his tongue slipping out of its own volition to lap at the salty drops already forming. Ezra was circumsized, a fact that Josiah found enticing as well as amusing. It is one of the reasons he was so willing to play this particular game, to do this much for another man.

 

At his touch, the whole note jerked up to a higher, shorter pitch, which could have been painful had Josiah not expected it – and countered by closing his lips around the sensitive knob. All sound stopped, as did the fingers moving on his own cock. The blood pounded in his head, but he knew it was silent outside of himself. His breathing was slowed now, controlled by distraction of his mouth, which, in turn, had started a primal appreciation for what it held.

 

He'd never played a wind instrument, his experience more in the rhythm of percussion, but he thought that this must be what it was like to create sound with breath and tongue and lips. He knew he could make certain notes by licking up the shaft in a long, smooth stroke, and he knew he could get a higher-pitched sound by flicking the tip of his tongue along the crown. Drawing it into his mouth and throat lowered the pitch of the sound, but increased the intensity.

 

He played with those variations now, trying to concentrate on the tones he wanted to make. But as he pushed the pitch lower, taking in as much as he could and laving along the shaft, the fingers on his cock tightened, moving faster and with more pressure. He couldn't stop the sounds that built in his own throat, a low hum that spread through him, resonating in his chest. He couldn't stop the tension that was building in his groin, the pressure demanding more and more of his attention.

 

It was always like this between them, a race to see who could find the ending to the song first. No words, though at this point, part of the race, part of the challenge, was to see who would be the first to speak.

 

Josiah tried, tried, to think only of the next sound. He flicked the tip of his tongue against a certain spot, and as it always did, it brought forth a slight trill in a higher tone.

 

But the retaliation was a long stroke along his own flesh, one that left a tingle coursing through his pelvis and a tightness in his throat. He tried to think only of what he was doing, but the pressure was building, encouraged by the manipulations of that talented hand – and then, by its mate, which cupped the back of Josiah's head then slid down to tease at his neck.

 

It could have been a cheat; Josiah was sensitive on the back of his neck. Ezra knew that, just as he knew that Josiah loved to have the thick curls at the base of his skull . . . damn him damn him damn him, now it's a rhythm that Josiah hums as those other fingers, as talented as the ones on his cock, tug and comb and wrap themselves around the strands of his hair, twirling it and setting the pace for the sounds Josiah finds himself making, the sounds that grow louder and faster as the fingers dance through his hair and up and down his shaft.

 

He knows it won't be long, and his only consolation is that with every step closer, he drags Ezra along with him. He can tell that his ministrations, distracted as they are, are still working, for Ezra's concentration is also breaking. His tone is becoming unsteady, breaking in places and changing pitch more often. He punctuates it with soft, syncopated grunts that create an atonal counter point.

 

Josiah plays his last card. Carefully, he shifts his weight so that he can move his left hand to the hot space between Ezra's legs. It's a delicate move, and one that requires more attention than he can give to it. But he's done it often enough, so often that he knows Ezra knows to expect it. Which means that Ezra has allowed himself, once more, to 'lose' this competition, to be the one to end the song first.

 

Which he does as Josiah's finger unerringly finds the special spot behind Ezra's balls. Josiah knows the right amount of pressure, not enough to hurt but enough to almost hurt. Enough to push against the tender space that seems connected to Ezra's cock. One touch, just right, and Ezra's body arches up, the tip of his cock banging against the back of Josiah's throat, his fingers pulling in Josiah's hair.

 

And Ezra says the one thing that Josiah wants to hear: "Dear God!"

 

The very idea of those words coming out of Ezra's wicked mouth is enough to push Josiah past his limit. The fact that they are sincere – desperate, needy, an actual request for release, makes him come with such force that he almost loses consciousness.

 

But not quite, for Ezra is spending as well, his seed choking Josiah as it fills his throat and mouth, leaking out the corners. The bitter taste is familiar but not one that he has come to appreciate, despite the frequency of finding it in his mouth.

 

He draws away, letting the pulsing cock fall from his mouth, which he wipes at with the back of one hand. He thinks of spitting out what's still in his mouth, but he's already swallowing, the action instinctive. His attention is caught by the sight of Ezra still stretched in the rigor of release, his head thrown back, hair tousled, flesh shining with sweat. His eyes are closed, his face scrunched in a frown of pain and ecstasy, and his lips still holding the shape of their last words. Holding the note, as if still making a sound.

 

Josiah leans over him, catching those lips, those words, in his own mouth. As they connect, he can feel the quiver, the slight vibration that he can't hear, and he knows the music is playing on, silently, a melody that binds them together even when it's not audible. Even when it's not in the words but in something stronger and deeper that connects them.

 


End file.
